


This is Us

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	This is Us

The first time your hand sought his, a warmth of solace weaving into the spaces between his fingers, squeezing to banish any gaps and with them the surge of self-doubt overwhelming him for a split-second decision made to save your lives at the expense of losing a one-of-a-kind relic needed for an apocalypse-averting plan - a decision that Dean, captain of team _There must be another way!_ except when he’s not the one making the life or death call, vehemently disagreed with in redirected fume of frustration by berating the angel into sulking backseat silence on the return drive to the bunker despite you and Sam both coming to his defense - Castiel wasn’t certain how to react.

Sullen blues slanting to you, seeing your bruised chin tilted to wearily peer at a world awash in dusk light speeding beyond the Impala’s window, then following the blood-spattered flap of collar and shoulder seam of denim down the torn sleeve to the digits slotted together upon his knee - fitted as if they were specifically created to entwine thus and doing so was natural - he did not withdraw, but rather ceded the limb to your claim on it, limply yielding to the great unknown emotion stirred by your tempering touch.

His palm echoed your heat thereafter, longing evermore, and especially in your presence, to reconnect to its source; although, uncertainty seemed perpetually to arise to check the impulse of his reach.

The second time you soothed the seraph with the simple sensation of your skin against his own occurred in the emotionally amped aftermath of Dean nearly succumbing to a supernatural wound. Grace powerless to heal his friend, Castiel - echoes of Sam’s tear-rasped exclamation of, “What do you mean it’s not working?” so deafening in his mind as to subdue any sense of relief - burdened himself with blame for the close call.

Beer bottles dripping in condensation clinking in a round of drinks celebrating a witch-assisted win in the wake of Dean’s recovery thanks to Rowena’s aid, the angel retreated to the recesses of his room to escape, rather than embrace, the rowdy reminder of his failure.

You found him there, his defeated figure folded on the mattress edge, trench coat carelessly crumpled on the floor at his feet, arms loosely crossed in his lap and looking thoroughly crestfallen judging by the unfocused glaze of frowning features. Stooping to lift the coat, shaking out the wrinkles, you laid it across the desk chair before sinking onto the bed beside him with a small bounce. 

Palm smoothing across the immovable mountains of tenseness seizing his shoulders, the other clasping over his coiled fists, the squirming insistence of probing fingers freeing one for the taking, you pulled him flush against the comforting curves of your body; hugging him firmly to soft flesh rising and falling with the melodically reassuring rhythm of life moving in and out of your lungs, you said nothing, simply sat, silently pressing his palm so as to show him he wasn’t alone.

So close, all else dissipated - the room and his worries - as he surrendered to the sweetness of your scent and the welcoming song of your soul humming through him as a sensation of coming home to a place you’ve never been before, but where you never feel lost. 

The third time your hands reunited, you stood roadside, stranded - the angel’s gold Continental steaming, sputtering, and likely suffering a blown gasket - in the starlight beneath a deeply purpled canopy of twinkling sky somewhere in rural Pennsylvania.

Side by side, gazes upturned from the endless black highway to the infinite stretch of Milky Way, breaths mingling misty before you, the warmth of summer waning in the coolness of the mid-September night, icy knuckles bumping in the harvest-laden breeze, your fingers brushed and braided together, not to signify solicitude or seek out a sense of peace when peace was so beautifully laid bare above, but as an anchor for two beings too long orbiting each other in the spinning void of the universe whose colliding of gravity this time spoke of, “You. Me. _Us_.”

Focus fixed on the beacon of Orion’s belt arcing above, words dissolving in tiny cloudbursts before you, you observed in whispered confession, “No matter what happens, where we are or where we go, I’ve always felt like _this_,” you flexed your fingers, reinforcing the grip for emphasis, “is where I belong.”

His tender blue gaze, warm and wide, settled palpably on you. He hoped - but had never dared to _dream_ \- his fondness for you might be returned. 

A quiver of gladness caressing his lips, creases of joy skirting shining eyes, he returned his look heavenward; fingers twitching to tell you he understood your meaning in the same manner you always seem to understand him, he said, smile softening the usual gravelly depth of his tone, “I feel it too.”


End file.
